


Of shadows, books, and corporeal sensations

by mywingsareonwheels



Series: What In Me Is Dark, Illumine [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bondage, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Chronic Pain, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Dominant Crowley (Good Omens), Erotic pain, Explicit Sexual Content, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, More angst, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spanking, Submissive Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), gratuitous classical music references, gratuitous literary references, i have feelings about crowley's plants, i wrote a soft story and now here is a deeply angsty sequel sorry about that, mention of top aziraphale and bottom crowley, more angst than that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 08:24:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywingsareonwheels/pseuds/mywingsareonwheels
Summary: "Crowley, where are we going?”“My flat.”“Your…why?”“Because I think, angel, that you have forgotten what I am.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I did not originally intend to write a sequel to "Of mince pies, carols, and the anointing of unguents" but, um, I have, and here it is. :-) So, I now have a series! It may or may not grow beyond these two...
> 
> The first story was very soft in a lot of ways; I started off writing this one in a similar vein, but the characters rather got away from me, and I found myself instead exploring some of the ways in which working for Hell for six thousand years has messed with Crowley's head. There are still moments of softness and sweetness, though (and filth :-) ), and a happy ending. And as always our ineffable duo care care heart-stoppingly deeply about each other.
> 
> Find me on tumblr if you wish @mywingsareonwheels. :-)
> 
> Content warnings (mildly spoilerific):-
> 
> \- quite a lot of sex  
> \- BDSM  
> \- panic attacks  
> \- anxiety about ways in which BDSM can go wrong  
> \- mental illness  
> \- internalised kinkphobia  
> \- chronic pain

Aziraphale’s lips tasted of coffee and marzipan, and his skin was the softest thing Crowley had ever known. His effort tasted of need and sweat and secrets and a love too-long neglected. His body, stripped, sprawled over the new bed miracled in the flat above A.Z. Fell’s bookshop, was an enticement sweeter than any temptation Crowley could devise. His hands – neat, plump, clever hands – were clutching at the pillows, his wrists straining at their bonds while he thrust helplessly into Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley remembered Eden, and thought this might be better. His heart sang.

But it couldn’t last. His neck muscles, still struggling with the after-effects of whiplash, gave a sharp, warning twinge. Aziraphale had pleaded so earnestly that he should not strain himself, not risk making things worse again. He withdrew his mouth regretfully.

“I’m sorry, angel. I can’t keep that up right now, it’s started to hurt.”

Aziraphale was panting hard, but managed to recover his breath enough to gasp, “It’s okay, dearest. It was wonderful to have that much. And thank you… thank you for taking care of yourself.”

Crowley kissed his thigh, then his belly. “You’re bloody amazing. And delicious. I wish I could do that to you all night.” Then he chuckled as Aziraphale stifled an obvious moan and his cock twitched.

Crowley stretched his fingers, shook out his wrists. He groaned, and briefly contemplated ignoring the pins and needles in his hands, and stroking Aziraphale to distraction with them anyway. Then realised he would not be able to hide the state of his spine afterwards, and Aziraphale would look at him in that sad and reproachful way, and… no. No, that would not work. And anything more energetic was entirely out of the question.

He growled, frustrated. “I hate this. I want to pleasure you, angel. I want to… Earth, I want to fuck you with my hands, and my mouth. I want to feel my cock in your arse, and then yours in mine, and then I want press you up against the wall of your shower and switch my effort to a cunt and ride you until you come apart. We’re finally together and you make me feel more amazing than anything has in my entire existence and this stupid, blessed body of mine can’t… argh!” He clapped his hand to his neck, tried to viciously rub at the knots of muscle, winced as he accidentally touched his tender spine and the pain got still worse.

“Free my hands, please, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, gently. “There, thank you, dear.” He sat up, carefully, and drew Crowley into a hug. “It will get better. It will. In the meantime...” his eyes suddenly twinkled. “Why don’t you lean back against the pillows, my love, and perhaps I can entertain you.”

And he did. The soft shamelessness in this quiet, book-filled bedroom from a being usually all-too self-conscious was enchanting. Crowley watched, gulped, gave directions that were not quite orders. Felt his own effort responding to that delicious hedonism, those darkening blue-grey eyes, that perfect roundedness of form. Learned some of the places where he might touch Aziraphale in future, and draw those sharp, needy gasps from that delectable mouth. 

“Say things… to me...” panted Aziraphale, as he ran one hand down his belly, grasping his cock hard with the other. “Please, my darling. Tell me what you’d like to be doing to me right now.”

“Aziraphale...” breathed Crowley, hoarsely. He gathered himself together, unable to resist one quick, desperate brush of a hand against his own effort. “Oh angel, the things I want to do to you.” He swallowed. “I want to fuck you into this bed with one hand across your mouth and the other holding your wrists behind your back. I want to blindfold you and bind you in silk and run my tongue along every inch of you except your effort, until you beg me to take you in my mouth again.” 

Aziraphale keened. “Crowley, oh goodness, yes, please...”

“I want to tie you to a chair in the back room of the shop, only allowing you enough freedom to hold and turn the pages of one of your books. I want to make you read aloud to me while I suck your cock and fuck your arse with my fingers. I want to see how long you can keep reading, how long you can keep your composure, how long you can keep from unravelling completely...”

Aziraphale was thrusting hard and frantically into his own hand now. His chest was flushed, his head tipped back. He was decadence and purity and glory, and nothing so fine had ever existed in all of creation.

“Oh angel,” breathed Crowley. And then, louder, “Yes. Come for me Aziraphale. Come for me now.”

And suddenly Aziraphale was there, coming hard, screaming. For an instant a pair of white wings seemed to shimmer in the air about them. Crowley could feel feathers touching his face. He shifted from his pillows, wrapped his arms around this impossible, beloved creature, pulled him to him. Aziraphale laid his head on Crowley’s lap. Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s flushed, sweet face, and the pale, damp halo of curls. 

“Crowley,” whispered Aziraphale after a while.

“Yes, my love?”

“Water? No… Tea?”

Crowley laughed, and kissed him. “One Earl Grey, coming right up.”


	2. Chapter 2

And up to that point, it was one of the best evenings of Crowley’s long and not-uneventful life.

They had spent several days entirely together, the bookshop closed, all social engagements cancelled, after a Yule party had turned into Aziraphale rubbing Anathema’s homemade salve into Crowley’s injured neck and back, which had turned into a declaration of the mutual love they had been concealing from each other[1] for millennia, which had turned into Aziraphale taking care of Crowley in quite a different way indeed.

After those blissful few days it was back to work in the shop for Aziraphale, and back to, well, loafing around London for Crowley, given that Hell would most certainly not be sending him any more assignments. Loafing, and trying to recover further from the whiplash he had sustained in driving his car through fire to save the world, and then exacerbated drastically when his body[2] got beaten up by the forces of darkness. So: gentle walks, ridiculous stretches. Blessing repeatedly at how painful driving had become. Fighting off unsolicited advice from the bevy of inquisitive strangers who seemed to pounce on him from every corner[3]. Scowling, a great deal.

It would have been entirely miserable, but each evening brought him back to the bookshop for closing time. Dinner at a restaurant, or in Aziraphale’s dining room. Another round of massage from the supply of salve that Anathema was happily refreshing every week[4]. Talking for hours, just as they always had, only now they touched while they talked. Fingers brushed and intertwined, hands pressed together, hair stroked, arms around each other’s shoulders as though nothing were more natural. They argued and they laughed, and it was everything they had always been to each other, and much, much more.

And sometimes the stroking grew more intense, and soft kisses grew deeper, and then Aziraphale would gently and ruthlessly take Crowley apart with pleasure. It was intoxicating and beautiful and made Crowley feel safer than anything ever had in before in his life. And, conveniently, with care and thought it was actually possible with Crowley’s spine in its current state. Crowley ached to give Aziraphale that same unwavering attention, to reduce Aziraphale into the same kind of moaning, ecstatic heap he spent part of most evenings in himself. But that still presented significant physical problems, and this, a cold, blustery evening in mid-January, was the first time they had tried it.

Well, it had not gone as planned, but it had not needed to. Crowley could not stop smiling as he fetched brandy for them both from one of the cabinets in the shop, and as they sat quietly together in the bed, neither sleepy, shoulder to shoulder. Aziraphale reading, Crowley playing a mildly irritating game on his phone[5]. It was foolish and pointless and he was not particularly good at it, but nothing, he thought, could spoil his mood now.

Suddenly they both spoke at once.

“Why do I really care about aligning three disgusting-looking sweets in a row anyway?” / “I was wondering if next time you might like to hurt me.”

A short pause.

“Say that again,” said Crowley.

“Well, you know,” said Aziraphale, blushing. “You could… scratch me. Bite me. Spank me, once your shoulders and neck can cope with it. I might even still have that flogger around somewhere.”

“A flogger.” 

“It’s in a cupboard somewhere around I’m sure, but I admit it hasn’t been used for a while. The suede may not be in the best condition.”

“You want me to hurt you.”

“Well, only if you would like to, I just thought...”

“You want _me_ to hurt you.”

“Crowley, if you aren’t keen that’s totally fine, I...”

Crowley pulled away and got out of bed. He started to pace. Somewhere inside him a quiet voice was trying to tell him that all was well, that he was safe, that the feelings he was being buffeted by were not proportionate. He tried to reach for that voice, to hold on to it, but it slipped away as the tide of horror overwhelmed him. 

Aziraphale was out of the bed and coming towards him, his face full of dismay. “Crowley, please, my love, it’s okay! I’d never want us to do anything you don’t like. I’m sorry, I...”

“And what if I do like it?” said Crowley, rounding on him, his hands tight with the effort of not reacting physically to what suddenly felt like a threat. “What if we try and we start and then we find that I like it a _lot_?”

Aziraphale swallowed. His mouth made a comprehending, “oh”. Then he came one step closer, raised his eyes and said simply, “I trust you.”

“No.”

“Yes. But we don’t have to do anything of the kind, dear one. It was a mere suggestion, nothing that I’ve set my heart on. I won’t ask again, not if it upsets you. Please, Crowley, come and sit down.”

“No!” Crowley almost shouted. He paced again, frantically. The bedroom did not have enough air. He did not need to breathe, he would not discorporate if he stopped entirely, but the bedroom still did not have enough air. He leaned his head against a rare patch of wall devoid of bookshelves. The wall was cold. It was freezing. It was not cold enough. It was leaning at a ridiculous angle. No, it was the right angle but it was too close to all of the other walls. They were all too close. There were books all around him. No, not books, shadows, shadows moving, moving past, scurrying, whispering. There was an acrid smell, blood and excrement and fear and the same bodies sweating in dark corridors for hundreds and hundreds of...

With a sudden resolution Crowley miracled himself back into his clothes, Aziraphale into his, and both of them into the Bentley. He drove off, revving unnecessarily, taking a harsh satisfaction in how many of Aziraphale’s neighbours must have woken at the sound.

“Crowley, this is ridiculous, I… Mind that taxi! Oh thank Heaven. Crowley, where are we going?”

“My flat.”

“Your… _why_?”

“Because I think, angel, that you have forgotten what I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] And in Aziraphale’s case, from himself. Right up until the point Crowley performed a demonic miracle to save some books from a fire in a church in 1941. Denial was a little difficult after that.
> 
> [2] At the time with Aziraphale in it.
> 
> [3] There were, it turned out, only so many ways of saying, “yes, I’ve tried yoga, and it is not helping as much as I was told it would” before it became just incoherent growling. Especially if you were already a) a demon and b) in pain, and thus intrinsically fairly low on patience.
> 
> [4] She had refused all payment, despite Aziraphale’s protests, and generally sent a parcel containing a pot or two, and a postcard or letter with a great deal of dry but sincere affection, and a shy but friendly word from Newt. One of the postcards was of a painting of two angels kissing. Crowley had rolled his eyes, threatened to put it straight into the recycling, and then sneaked it into his inside jacket pocket instead.
> 
> [5] He had only himself to blame, being responsible in various ways for most of the decisions that had gone into making it.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale had rarely been to Crowley’s flat. He did not like it much. The art was fine, but the place itself was all hard grey lines and minimalism. Too much open space, too little warmth, too little comfort. And no books. But having spent just a few hours in the close, rank, overcrowded stuffiness of Hell, he could understand why Crowley had made it as it was. It was everything that Hell was not, and for that if nothing else Aziraphale was glad of it, glad that Crowley had it as a refuge.

Crowley did not touch him or even look at him as they left the Bentley in the building car park, nor as they entered the lift, nor as they entered the flat itself. He kept his hands in his pockets, his head bent forward. Aziraphale was sure that his neck must be agony by now. He wanted to stroke those tight shoulders. He wanted to scream.

Crowley led him to the hall, the one that was like a small indoor garden. _Crowley’s little Eden_ , thought Aziraphale. _Why, I never thought of that before_.

“Talk to them,” said Crowley. His dark glasses were back on, his expression unreadable. “Touch them. Listen to them. I’ll wait in the living room.” He stalked away.

 _Them? Who is..._ Then for the first time Aziraphale looked around, properly looked, at Crowley’s plants.

* * *

Crowley was leaning back in the throne-like chair in his living room. No lights were on. In the gleam of the moon and the street lamps through the window his face looked blank and forbidding. He looked like an evil king from a fairytale. He looked like a Prince of Hell. 

Aziraphale switched on the light, closed the blinds, looked around for another chair, could not find one. He could miracle an armchair into being, he supposed. Something comfortable and old and worn and utterly at odds with Crowley’s décor and present mood. It would not help, he decided. He leaned against the desk.

“Well,” he said at last. “You could have chosen worse, I suppose. Animals. Humans. Me.”

“It might still be you, Aziraphale,” said Crowley in a low voice, “if we stay together. It probably will.”

There was a long pause. Aziraphale felt very tired.

“I’ve sent them away,” he said at last.

“You’ve...”

“A small miracle. I take it you don’t object? I looked on my… mobile device, and I used your wire-free internet, and I found a charity plant auction in Greenwich tomorrow, in aid of homeless young people. They will find they have rather more and better to sell than they had planned. The charity will do good things with the extra money, and the plants will all find buyers who will love them and care for them, and won’t even notice that they are...”

“Traumatised?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, tightly. “They will live out their lives in a happy and peaceful way. Plants of this kind have short memories. In a month or two I think they will be very much recovered.”

There was an even longer pause.

“Are you breaking up with me, angel?”

Suddenly Aziraphale snapped. “Why have you done this, Crowley? I’ve seen you tempt, and I’ve seen your frankly horrifying driving, and I’ve seen you trick and offend and annoy, as well as spread your… your small and petty evils for your old job. But this? This isn’t like you! And don’t say,” he said, seeing Crowley about to interrupt, “don’t say that it _is_ like you, I just don’t know you, this is the real you, this is the demon I am refusing to acknowledge. You cannot spend six thousand years showing me every side of yourself except this one and then act like I am naive for thinking – for knowing! – _that this is not like you_.”

Crowley shrugged. Then winced. Behind his glasses there was a suspicion of tears. Aziraphale smothered an impulse to go to him, to hold him, to tell him this all meant nothing, that they could undo the past hour and things could go on just as they were. He longed to. But he could not. Not and do justice to either of them, or to the suddenly very fragile bond between them.

Crowley took a deep breath. “It was a few decades ago. I can’t quite remember. I… I wanted some greenery in here. I didn’t think much further than that. And then I came across that thing about talking to plants, and I started to, well, talk. And I kept on talking, and… And then when they grew badly, when they… when they made a mess, or had leaf spots, or shrivelled, or got pests. I got so _angry_. All they had to do,” he said, his voice rising, “was what they were told. I gave them everything they could possibly need, and they still didn’t grow right, they still failed, they were stupid and disobedient and weak and they failed over and over and over and...”

“… and so you took away the ones you deemed most rebellious and melted them into nothing with holy water.”

“No, I used that horrible American rubbish disposal machine in the kitchen a few times, and the rest I left on the street outside for anyone who wanted them. The other plants thought I’d destroyed the weak ones anyway, and it frightened them, which was the point, but I felt sick when I actually did put them in the rubbish disposal, so… _Holy water_?! Aziraphale, what are you…?”

“Crowley.”

“Oh. No. No, that’s…”

“It makes sense to me now. I thought you’d made a little Eden here. I was wrong. You made yourself and them your own little Hell, and you controlled them when you could control nothing else.”

“Angel… angel, I...”

“I don’t think it was the plants you were angry at, Crowley,” said Aziraphale gently.

Crowley spluttered, and then began to sob. Tearing, heaving sobs, struggling for breath. He tore his glasses from his face. Aziraphale rushed to his side, held his shoulders. Crowley leaned into him, clawing at his jacket.

“Oh Crowley, dearest. I… I’m sorry...”

Crowley shrugged him off, and wiped the tears furiously from his face. “No! I don’t want your pity, Aziraphale, and I don’t deserve your love, or your kindness, or your touch, or your fucking apologies. I’m brutal, and I’m cruel, and I’m stupid, and I’m weak, and I’m...”

“Disobedient? Traumatised?”

Crowley stared at him.

“Crowley. I am not going to excuse you. You know it would be dishonest. You know I would very much rather you had not treated innocent living things in this way. They were in your care and they deserved better from you. But it does occur to me that you have undergone six millennia of psychological torture, working for an organisation that did not care for you, that rewarded you when you claimed credit for acts of human cruelty that disgusted and distressed you, that has always wielded terror as its first tool of personnel management, and that tried to destroy you when at last you openly did something that aligned with your own generous nature. And that, my dear, after you had been thrown from the Divine Presence for reasons that frankly I have come to consider entirely inadequate.

“I do not have to excuse you to know that I know of no other being of any kind who could be as good as you are with all the pressure you have had on you to be bad, and with the mental suffering you have experienced. I am certain that I could not.”

Crowley said nothing. Aziraphale took the glasses from him, put them in his own jacket pocket. Then took Crowley’s hands in his own, and held them.

When Crowley finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “I’m a fucking mess.”

“My dear, you are not facing this alone.”

“First my spine, now this.”

“No one said recovering from Armageddon was going to be easy.”

“I am so, so scared of harming you, angel.” Crowley let out another tight sob.

“Then don’t. Don’t today. Don’t tomorrow. Don’t any day. We saved the world together, Crowley. We will find a way through this.”

Crowley sighed. “What happened tonight? I just wanted to do things to you that you like. Give you some pleasure.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I would like to remind you did, and that in fact I came quite vigorously.” His face fell. “And then I managed to ruin it by asking you for something that I should not.”

“Angel, you weren’t to know. This isn’t your fault.”

“No? I might have realised. I might have… deduced that it was a suggestion that might cause you some difficulties.”

“Aziraphale, please, no. If I’m… if I’m going to try to do better, and to be better, it really is not going to help if you apologise to me for things that it would be wrong of me to blame you for. Anyway,” he said. “You know about all of me now. I’m glad. And that… that they will have good homes. That they’re safe.” 

He looked up into Aziraphale’s eyes. The yellow of them looked almost gold. Aziraphale gently kissed his forehead, then his lips.

“I am not breaking up with you, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley kissed him back, softly. There was no passion, not this time. But there was warmth, gratitude.

“Please can we go home now, angel,” he said. His voice was shaking.

Aziraphale looked around the room and then back at him. “But...”

“ _Home_ ,” said Crowley, with emphasis. “If… if you’ll have me.”

“Always,” said Aziraphale, and he helped him to his feet.


	4. Chapter 4

A week passed, and then another. The weather worsened. Aziraphale ran the bookshop, cooked meals, took delivery of some old music manuscripts that might or might not have a connection with Barbara Strozzi[1]. Crowley was not well. He mostly stayed in the bedroom, except when Aziraphale persuaded him to take a gentle walk for a few minutes for the sake of his spine. He flinched at unexpected sounds. Bad smells brought on waves of claustrophobia. He tried sleeping, and then woke screaming in the middle of the day and frightened away the customers. Aziraphale hid all of the alcohol, fearing damage there, and then spent as much time with Crowley as the business of the shop would allow. He held his hand, held him, breathed with him. Made it clear over and over again that Crowley had not forfeited his love, had not forfeited his touch. Bought him an essential oil burner and let him fill the bedroom with pine and clary-sage and citronella to drive away ghost-smells of Hell. Encouraged him to talk, slowly, and reluctantly, and then with words overflowing, spilling over each other to get out, about the torments of damnation; the pain of Falling; how it felt to be awarded “Employee of the Year” when Hell believed him responsible for the deaths of millions. 

Sometimes Aziraphale telephoned Madame Tracy, and then Anathema, as the most sensible humans he knew. They both said the same thing: it was common and normal for those who had undergone trauma to experience some worrying mental symptoms afterwards. At least now there was the potential for Crowley to heal, and at least he had a lot of time in which to do it. In the absence of the kind of professional help that a human might access, Aziraphale was doing everything that he could. And then they would ask, “And how are you yourself, Aziraphale? And do you need any help? And are you sleeping peacefully, when you do? _How are you_?”

_How am I?_ He asked himself. _Well, so far. But Crowley seemed fine too._

He did not deceive himself. He had worked for an organisation that did not care for him, that pushed him to justify cruelty that was at times at least as bitter as that of Hell, that belittled him and mocked him, and tried to destroy him when at last he openly did something that aligned with his own nature. He had undergone fewer horrors than Crowley. That still left room for quite enough of them.

Snow came, then a thaw, then more snow. Anathema and Newt announced their engagement. Brian wrote a long and rather wobbly letter to Aziraphale saying he thought he might be bi, and asking for advice. Aziraphale panicked, but with help from Crowley he managed to write back something suitably kind and validating. He also sent him a copy of _Maurice_ by E.M. Forster, and then panicked again.

The papers proved indeed to be by Strozzi, including a few tantalising bars of a song she never finished. Aziraphale’s delight was so radiant that Crowley seemed to brighten a little in the reflected glow of it. There was little of Strozzi’s work to be had on vinyl, so Aziraphale let Crowley find and put mp3s on his phone instead. Crowley himself, to Aziraphale’s astonishment, fell in love with one recording of “Che Si Può Fare”[2], and listened to it on his own phone over and over again, for days. Aziraphale bought him some headphones. Crowley started singing along with it. Aziraphale let him have it on out loud again.

_Che si può fare,_ Crowley sang, his pleasant but rough-edged tenor blending awkwardly with the exquisite clarity of the soprano.

_Che si può fare,_  
_le stelle rubelle_  
_non hanno pietà,_  
_pietà,_  
_non hanno pietà_. 

_Che si può fare,_  
_s'el cielo s'el cielo non dà_  
_un influsso di pace_  
_un influsso di pace,_  
_al mio penare._

_Well, quite,_ thought Aziraphale. _The rebellious stars have indeed had no pity for you, and neither have the heavens given peace to your suffering. I cannot disagree. And I don’t know what we can do about it, beyond what we’re already doing._

At night, Aziraphale tried sleeping, mostly so that Crowley would rest too. The nightmares grew less severe, and less frequent. When Crowley could not sleep, they held each other through the dark.

“I’m not fine, angel,” Crowley said once. “I don’t think I ever will be. But…” he shrugged his shoulders, eased them out. The massages were continuing to help. “Perhaps I don’t need to be fine. Just better. Better enough.”

Spring came, suddenly and with an extravagance of blossom. Aziraphale bought a tomato plant and put it by the bedroom window, and Crowley quietly tended it, touching the leaves with a delicate wonder as though they might shatter beneath his fingers. He did not attempt to talk to it.

Crowley started to help out in the shop for a few hours on good days. Shadwell and Madame Tracy went out one afternoon and got married, only telling everyone about it afterwards. Wensleydale wrote a short and emphatic letter to Crowley saying that he was gay, and asking for advice. He then added that actually he was in love with Brian.

“Do not wait six thousand years to tell him,” was Crowley’s somewhat unhelpful advice. “Also don’t be crap about it if he’s not interested,” he added. He asked Aziraphale about various books they might send him. Aziraphale vetoed them all. He was still uneasy about _Maurice_. Crowley found links to some sensible websites and sent those instead.

On the day of the Spring Equinox, Aziraphale closed the shop at lunchtime and took Crowley for a picnic in St James’s Park. It was warm. They sprawled together on a blanket. Crowley felt the sun soaking into his skin, easing the lingering tension in his muscles and spine. He basked in it like a lizard. Aziraphale stroked his hair and tickled his nose with a grass stem. Crowley hissed at him, then grinned.

“I never asked,” said Crowley. “Why you wanted me to hurt you. That night.”

Aziraphale took one of his hands and kissed it. “It doesn’t matter, dearest.”

“It does. I want to know.”

“Well...” Aziraphale hesitated, then: “It’s like food, really.”

“Food?”

“And sunlight. And wine. And the smell of old books. And Strozzi, and Schubert, and Shostakovich. And, for that matter, sexual pleasure, which of course can be interestingly combined with pain in the sort of circumstances we are discussing. They are all corporeal sensations, all interesting. There are only a few kinds of pain this applies to, you understand, but those ones, caused by the right person, at the right time, in the right way… It’s like wasabi. Intense, you don’t want too much all at once or your head feels like it might discorporate, but there’s a glorious feeling as the body adjusts.”

“I hate wasabi, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale ignored him. “And then, you know, if you are... sexually submitting to the person inflicting the pain, it becomes a service, or a challenge. A way of pleasing them. A way of becoming… more deeply entwined together.”

Crowley looked at him. “Would you enjoy hurting me?”

“If you were interested, why, yes. Certainly. Only if you wanted it, of course, and, I must say, only if I were sure you wanted it for the right reasons. Not because you wanted to me to help you punish yourself.”

“And you would enjoy me hurting you? Assuming,” he added, before Aziraphale could protest, “that I wanted to. And wanted to for the right reasons.”

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale. “I have engaged in such activities on occasion over the years. Both… as the receiver and the giver of the pain. But never with anyone I was in love with. Never, my dear Crowley, with you. The idea of you hurting me in that way, of being that much at your mercy… I fear the attraction of the image rather overwhelmed my judgement.”

Crowley pulled up a few grass stems, and laid them out neatly in front of him. “I’d like to try it,” he said quietly.

“Really? But…?”

“I can’t spend the whole of eternity looking over my shoulder at the darkness that’s been forced on me. You know the worst of me now, and you still trust me, and I’m trying to believe that you’re right. I have to learn to trust myself. This is something I might be able to do that would make you happy, and I’m not going to let Hell or Heaven ruin that possibility, not now. But I have to take this carefully. So… talk me through it, teach me what you like. Teach me what’s… reasonable.” He laughed. “Please, mighty angel, teach this foul fiend to be a sadist.”

Aziraphale looked deep into his eyes and took his hand again. He kissed the palm, and then the inside of the wrist. For the first time in weeks Crowley could feel the stirring of desire. “Gladly, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “Very, very gladly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] A seventeenth century Venetian composer and singer. Aziraphale had heard her sing in person a few times, and found her a delightful dinner companion. Take a moment now, dear reader, if you wish, to find some of her work and listen to it. Your humble author especially recommends the recordings by Argentinian soprano Mariana Flores, some of which are on Youtube.
> 
> [2] This one, in fact: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDBPfhG-gVk


	5. Chapter 5

Aziraphale found the note in the inside pocket of his jacket in the middle of a morning phone call about a George Eliot first edition[1], and barely stifled an undignified squeak of delight.

_Hello angel,_ began the note. _I think our lessons have been going well, don’t you? And my back seems like it might hold up better today. If you think the student might be ready to become the master, here is what I want you to do..._

* * *

Crowley found himself pacing in the back room a few minutes before closing time, but managed to persuade himself to stop and sit down. He sprawled in the chair he had prepared, tested the fixings he had added. He breathed in, then breathed out more slowly, as Anathema had taught him. In for five, out for ten. In for six, out for twelve… He could do this. Aziraphale had sent him several notes throughout the day and had told him he could do this. He could do this.

Aziraphale came in on the dot at six o’clock, clutching a book to his chest and looking flushed and eager. Their eyes met.

“I hope you chose a good book,” said Crowley.

“All my books are good, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

“Angel, I know for a fact that the shop carries three copies of the complete works of William McGonagall. One of them is signed. You made me tempt three students out of buying it last week.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Well, there is that,” he said. “Though at least no one asks me to get in Jeffrey Archer novels any more.”

“Ugh, way to kill the mood, Aziraphale.”

“I do not believe,” said Aziraphale, looking up at him with a sudden earnestness, “that anything could kill my mood after the missives we exchanged today.”

Crowley swallowed. Then he went to Aziraphale, took his face in his hands, and kissed him softly. Then leaned in to kiss him again, and, grinning, pulled away. Aziraphale whimpered. Crowley stroked his cheek, ran a thumb roughly over the wanting lips, and began to undress him.

Aziraphale wore too many layers. Bow tie, jacket, waistcoat, braces, trousers, vest. Crowley loved every one. He took his time, placing each garment carefully on a bookshelf, folded neatly. Left trails of kisses along the soft skin. And then a trail of bites along one shoulder. Nakedness revealed that Aziraphale’s effort was already hard.

“Crowley...” he breathed. “I need… I need...”

“Yes, my love,” said Crowley. “Let me show you where I want you.”

He had set up a low chair so that Aziraphale could kneel on it, resting the book, his hands, his forearms and, if he wished, his whole upper body on a bench before him. Crowley guided him into position, then caressed his hair, his neck, down his back, then lingered lovingly on the luxuriant roundness of his bottom. He squeezed one cheek, first gently, then harder. Aziraphale gasped.

“You have a fucking gorgeous backside, angel,” said Crowley. “And very soon I am going to hurt it in several of the ways you’ve taught me. But first… remind me of the rules.”

Aziraphale took a breath. “Phone means stop. Kettle means pause so we can talk. Bentley means carry on, but slower and more gently.”

“Yes, and I appreciated that joke,” said Crowley dryly. “Go on. I take it the book you chose has none of those words in it?”

“Definitely not.”

“Very well.”

“I read, and I keep on reading. I try to stay reading, you try to make it impossible. Eventually...” Aziraphale’s voice shook. “Eventually you will win.”

“Good,” said Crowley.

“Crowley, you know the safewords are for you too? Please don’t… don’t put yourself through anything you aren’t comfortable with. This is for both of us.”

Crowley kissed the curly blond head. “I know, love. But thank you.” He straightened up, stretched, flexed his fingers. “Now. Read.”

“ _Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit  
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste  
Brought death into the World, and all our woe…_”

Crowley almost lost his composure. “Really, angel? Oh good gr… Right. You asked for this.”

There was a snicker in Aziraphale’s voice as he continued. “ _...With loss of Eden,  
till one greater Man  
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,  
Sing, Heavenly_… ouch! _...Muse, that, on the secret top  
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst in… _ ah! _...spire  
That shepherd who first taught the chosen seed  
In the beginning how the heavens and earth  
Rose out of Chaos..._”

After the first few, brutal smacks, Crowley slowed down, giving a steady, thorough pat of warm-up strokes with his hand, just as Aziraphale had taught him. Just as, in fact, Aziraphale had also done to him now, on more than one occasion. _Let him have time to process each bout of real pain_ , Crowley reminded himself. _Let the endorphins kick in, let it all turn to pleasure. He’s safe. I’m safe. He’s flushed and happy. I can do this._

“ _...what in me is dark  
Illumine, what is…_oh Heavens… _low raise and support;  
That, to the height of this great argument,  
I may assert Eternal Providence,  
And justify the ways of God to men._”

“Yeah, just don’t try to justify the ways of _Gabriel_ to men, that’s all I ask,” said Crowley, as he ran the tip of a riding crop slowly down Aziraphale’s back.

“ _Say first—for Heaven hides nothing from thy view,  
Nor the deep tract of Hell..._”

_The deep tract of Hell._ Crowley suddenly felt his throat tighten. _Oh God, what did I do to deserve Your best and brightest angel? This isn’t just a tease. He’s showing me how far I’ve come, how much I’ve healed, even in the last few weeks. We’re playing with fire, with hellfire, and with holy water, and together we’re turning them into a stiff breeze and soaring on it._

“ _Th’infernal Serpent..._ Oh God! Ah!”

“Breathe for me, Aziraphale. That’s right. Slow and steady. Drink in the pain, sweet angel. There’s lots more to come, and you can take it all.”

“Yes...” whimpered Aziraphale. “Yes. For you, I can.”

“Now, where were you? Oh yes. Infernal Serpent. Does it also say that I’m devastatingly handsome?”

“No, Milton… nnf! … rather omitted that part. But then you see he… _Earth!_ … he thought that was Lucifer and he’s talking about… _God!_ … about him.”

“Less lit-crit, more reading. Unless of course you want to forfeit the game already.”

“ _Th’infernal Serpent;_ ” resumed Aziraphale, pointedly, “ _he it was whose guile,  
Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived  
The mother of mankind, what time his pride  
Had cast him out from Heaven..._”

Crowley continued to crop him. Vicious little strokes, but with a few seconds and a gentle caress between each one. Aziraphale’s bottom was flushing a delicious shade of pink, and his voice was becoming softer, lower, languorous. The sharp cries were turning to soft groans. Crowley resisted the temptation to reach for the angel’s effort. He did not want any of this to be over yet.

“ _What though the field be lost?_ ” read Aziraphale, moaning every few lines.  
“ _All is not lost—the unconquerable will,  
And study of revenge, immortal hate,  
And courage never to submit or yield:  
And what is else not to be overcome?  
That glory never shall his wrath or might  
Extort from me. _”

_Well,_ thought Crowley, _if Lucifer had talked like that, maybe I would have fallen all the way and been as loyal to him and evil for his sake as I was supposed to be. I seem to remember it was more a lot of shouting and repeating himself and spite. I’m glad Milton didn’t write his speeches._

“ _So spake th' apostate Angel, though in pain,  
Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair..._”

“Kettle,” said Crowley, suddenly, laying his hand still on Aziraphale’s back.

“Kett… yes.” Aziraphale panted, obviously trying to regain control. “Are you… is…?”

“I’m fine,” said Crowley. “My arm’s getting tired, and I want you to have some water. You’re doing very, very well, angel. Let’s have a breather.”

Aziraphale’s hands were shaking as he sipped. Crowley stretched, relaxed, let his shoulders settle, then lazily stroked Aziraphale’s sweat-soaked hair.

“You… you haven’t defeated me yet,” said Aziraphale, with difficulty.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, angel?”

“Definitely.”

He resumed reading, and Crowley began another hand-spanking, easing Aziraphale back into a rhythm, enjoying the ripples of flesh as each blow hit that glorious behind.

Then he stopped. “Something’s different about your voice,” he said. “You… hang on, isn’t that Beelzebub’s speech to Lucifer?”

“ _But what if he our Conqueror_ ” continued Aziraphale, in very different accents from his usual plummy tones,  
“ _(whom I now  
Of force believe almighty, since no less  
Than such could have o'erpowered such force as ours)..._”

“You’re doing an impression of Beelzebub!” exclaimed Crowley.

Aziraphale was now openly giggling as he read. “ _...Have left us this our spirit and strength entire,  
Strongly to suffer and support our pains..._”

“You’re doing an impression of Beelzebub, you utter, glorious bastard!”

Crowley was laughing too now, and for a moment the scene broke down, Crowley holding helplessly on to Aziraphale’s bench, collapsing his head by Aziraphale’s and gently pressing their foreheads together.

Then, as his laughter died down, he found a wicked little grin playing about his lips, and suddenly grabbed a handful of curls. “Right,” he said, feeling Aziraphale draw in a hard breath. “You’re finding this _much_ too easy, angel. Time to make you work a little harder.”

They had only used the heavy paddle twice in their practice sessions, and Crowley found himself nervously fiddling with the edges as he fetched it from its box, and hefted it in his hands. Here, now, if at all, was when things would go wrong. Where panic – or much, much worse – would take over.

“Carry on reading,” he ordered. “And keep doing the voices.”

“ _That we may so suffice his vengeful ire,  
Or do him mightier service as his thralls  
By right of war, whate'er his business be,  
Here in the heart of Hell to work in fire,  
Or do his errands in the gloomy_ oh bastard fucking hellfire!”

Eight heavy, fast thwacks with the paddle, alternating cheeks. Aziraphale dropped the book, and choked back a sob.

Crowley rubbed Aziraphale’s bottom and lower back, murmuring praise, trying to let his own heart-rate return to something manageable. _He’s fine,_ he said to himself, over and over again. _We talked about this. He gave it as one of the things he most wanted. I don’t have to panic. I have no rage here, no desire to harm him or to take things one fraction of an inch beyond what he wants. I’m enjoying it, but I’m enjoying it with him. He’s with me. We’re together._

But his heart was still racing as he heard Aziraphale’s breathing settle, saw him stretch and relax himself back into position.

“Talk… talk to me a moment, Aziraphale,” he said. “Any items of modern technology you want to mention?”

“N-no...” said Aziraphale, hoarsely. “It’s… I’m absorbing, that’s all. Please don’t worry.”

“Have I won the game?”

“Beyond question. I can’t read another thing. But please… please don’t stop now.”

Well, that was enthusiastic consent if anything was. Crowley caressed him some more, carefully, tenderly. Then:

“You’re so brave, angel. You’re pleasing me very, very much. I’m going to give you another eight fast strokes with the paddle, and then _maybe_ eight more. Are you ready? Can you take this for me, my love?”

Aziraphale swallowed, shifted position, then nodded.

“Say it out loud for me, angel. I want to hear the words.”

“Yes, Crowley. I… I can take this for you. I want to.”

Crowley kept his left hand on Aziraphale’s lower back, holding him in position and, he hoped, giving him some reassurance. He took the paddle back in his right hand, and delivered the second eight strokes with a speed and ferocity that had Aziraphale crying out and squirming beneath the restraining hand.

“Aziraphale. Are you with me?”

Aziraphale was weeping, but managed, “Yes. Thank you, Crowley.”

“Can you take a final eight?”

Crowley was relieved to see that even in his current state, Aziraphale was giving this proper thought, rather than saying immediately that he could. The nod, and the, “yes, please,” emerged after a minute or so and were clearly genuine. Crowley checked him over, stroking his back, his bottom, his shoulders. Satisfied, he straightened up.

“One last eight, then.”

He made them just as fast as the second set, but a little less heavy. Aziraphale sobbed, struggled, and then was still. He buried his head in his arms, trembling.

“Oh you beauty,” breathed Crowley. “Well done.” He miracled the implements clean and back into their box, and then gathered Aziraphale into his arms, wrapping him in the blanket he had kept ready. Aziraphale leaned into him, still crying gently, but with the beginnings of a blissful smile. Crowley kissed his head, crying a little himself.

“I love you, angel,” said Crowley.

“I love you too,” said Aziraphale, dreamily.

They sat like together for a while, Aziraphale on the kneeling-chair, Crowley on the bench, holding him, helping him to sip some more water. Then he made him bend over again, long enough for to tenderly rub some of Anathema’s salve into the bruised and glowing cheeks. It seemed to work for this too.

“Well,” he said to Aziraphale, once the latter had surfaced into something slightly more like coherence. “I’ve made you suffer and I’ve won our game, and I’ve anointed you with our favourite unguent. And now...” he could feel his voice getting a little hoarse. “I would like to give you some pleasure, please. Unless you have any objection.”

He pulled the chair he had prepared into the centre of the room, guided Aziraphale carefully into it, thrusting the other chair and the bench to one side.

This chair was new, built for purpose, and Crowley was rather proud of it. There were straps for the legs, more straps to tie the arms behind the back of the chair. It looked uncomfortable, but the restraints were padded, the back supportive, the seat heavily cushioned. Aziraphale still winced and then grinned as he sat, then waited with commendable patience as Crowley fussed about securing his legs. Crowley stood, and looked down at his handiwork. Aziraphale was flushed and rumpled and tear-stained and happy and hard and breathtakingly beautiful. 

“I’m going to leave your arms free,” said Crowley. “I’m going to want them around me.” And with a slightly grandiose snap of his fingers, he miracled away his own clothes.

For once, Crowley had made the kind of effort that was usually associated with human women. Aziraphale’s eyes widened. _He has never done this before,_ Crowley remembered. _His partners were all cisgender men before me, and he pretty much always manifests a cock himself. This is the one bit of sexual experience I have that he does not._

“Are you still with me, angel?” asked Crowley again. “Shall I keep going?”

Aziraphale only nodded, but it was emphatic enough that Crowley felt safe taking it on trust. He straddled the chair, kissed Aziraphale deeply, then lowered himself down until his cunt was just touching the tip of Aziraphale’s effort.

“I did enjoy hurting you, angel,” he breathed. “I loved it because you loved it. And now feel what that’s done to me. Feel how hot and wet and aching your suffering and your courage have made me.”

Aziraphale moaned.

“Put your arms around me, angel. Good, that’s right. Now, let’s give you a new corporeal sensation to try.” He lowered himself, as slowly as he could bear. He buried Aziraphale’s effort within his own. He ground down further, groaning at how good, how perfect it felt. 

They rocked together for a moment, then both began to thrust, jaggedly. It was frantic and uncoordinated. When a rhythm finally emerged, it was hard, fast, desperate. Crowley realised that neither of them would last long now, and he did not care. In their few months together they had not yet fucked, not in any combination. They were fused together, finally, marvellously, and now the rising need of six agonising millennia was suddenly too much.

“Crowley...” panted Aziraphale, “Crowley, _Crowley_ , I’m going to...” 

“Yes, yes you beautiful, glorious thing,” breathed Crowley, “yes, my angel, yes, come for me.”

Aziraphale came with one more thrust, crying Crowley’s name like a prayer, and Crowley tumbled suddenly down into his own pleasure, shaking uncontrollably, holding on to the chair and to Aziraphale as though they were the only still points in an erratically spinning universe. There was a breath of wind, as though two mighty sets of wings were shivering the air. Then stillness.

As their breathing finally slowed, Crowley gently slid himself away from Aziraphale’s cock, whimpering at the loss. Then he took another shortcut: miracled the straps from Aziraphale’s legs, then miracled them both into the bathroom. He staggered slightly. Aziraphale took his hand, gestured to the huge double bath, which was suddenly full of water and the scent of heather. On the side there was what looked like a mimosa for each of them.

“Angel, I distinctly remember you saying no alc...”

“Virgin mimosas,” said Aziraphale, interrupting. “No alcohol. Just vitamins. And…” he waved a hand vaguely, “… pleasant corporeal sensation.”

They sank into the bath, and into each other’s arms, and more or less managed to stay awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Of _Middlemarch_ , to be precise. It turned out to be a bad and possibly cursed later edition, with a number of misprints, one of which left the reader with the impression that Dorothea had sworn at Casaubon. Aziraphale bought it anyway. He left it next to _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_ , and within a few weeks there was an extra paragraph in which Farebrother repeatedly called Dr Lydgate a misogynist twit, and it's not as though Eliot would have disagreed. Cursed books are underrated.


	6. Epilogue

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, as they watched the sunrise together from their bed, many hours later.

“Thank you,” said Crowley. He was snuggled up on Aziraphale’s chest, feeling more at peace than he could ever remember.

“You did marvellously, Crowley. All the fear you’ve worked through, the anger, the pain. I felt safety in your every touch, even the most challenging. It was perfect.”

Crowley nuzzled his shoulder. “I’m still not well, Aziraphale.”

“I know.”

“And you’re not either, are you?”

“Crowley?”

“I’m not stupid, angel. I know what you went through with your bosses for six millennia, and it wasn’t much prettier than what I went through with mine. And at the end the bastards didn’t even give you the pretence of a trial that Hell gave me. You’ve held together for months while I’ve been collapsing, but I think we both know the cracks are beginning to show. I think that part of why you cried when I paddled you last night was that you’ve been made to feel weak and cowardly for thousands of years by beings with a fraction of your moral courage and grit, and for once you got to prove to yourself how brave and determined and bloody-minded you really are. That’s part of what you like, isn’t it? And you’re so blessedly good at being helpful and supportive, even when I’m topping you, and I can’t thank you enough for that, just… please remember that you’re allowed to be looked after too? You don’t have to pretend to be okay. You don’t have to always have to be the strong one.”

Aziraphale ran a finger down Crowley’s arm. “I’ll try. You’ve saved me from being discorporated often enough, I ought to remember that.”

“I mean it’s probably a good idea if we try to coordinate our breakdowns sensibly, but...”

Aziraphale laughed. “Yes, we had better. But other than that... Oh my darling, this will all be very hard, but we are not alone. We have friends who will at least try to help. And I have you, my dear one, and you have me.”

“And all shall be well,” said Crowley, kissing him, “and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well[1].”

“I love you, Crowley, former Serpent of Eden.”

“I love you, Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Now. Crepes for breakfast? There’s a delightful little cafe opened just around the corner that I’ve been longing to try...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Aziraphale had of course been sent to encourage and strengthen and bless the anchorite and mystic Julian of Norwich, but as part of the Arrangement it had actually been Crowley who visited her. Meeting her was about the only thing Crowley had enjoyed about the 14th century, and Aziraphale now entertained a private suspicion that Julian’s gently rebellious theology had been more influenced by Crowley’s attitudes than the demon would ever, _ever_ admit. This raised further interesting possibilities about just how much the Almighty had known of, approved of, and made use of the Arrangement for her own ends, but Aziraphale was only just on the verge of speculating about this. Her ways were, after all, ineffable.


End file.
